Imprint

In addition to some dollops of CaliforniaBlue sky, my Holiday 2009 Freeloaders’ Tour gave me several opportunities to reflect upon the seemingly timeless and cross-cultural need to fight the big-picture, we-are-but-an-indistinguishable-speck-in-the-universe thinking so beloved by French existentialists.

[Pass the Gauloise, s'il vous plaît.]

Sometimes a particular battle ends with a flag planted on the moon. Sometimes with an artistic work. Every so often, those who challenge injustice—because they believe all specks deserve equal opportunities for happiness and despair—gain a foothold. And of course, many wage daily war against meaninglessness by creating bonds with family and loved ones they hope will transcend generations.

And some, well, some just like to make their presence known. To say, “I was here.” “Behold my thought.” “I matter.” To add a layer to another’s experience. To go unquietly into that good night.

Can you blame them?

…sometimes those that come before us leave a legacy that competes with what’s in front of us…

(top to bottom: Small attractions at Golden Gate Bridge; human traces on Sonoma County old growth; inscriptions at Balboa Park, San Diego; a passerby’s proclamation at Carmel Beach; [jumping acrosss the ocean to Hawaii, since this is my favorite example to date] Story time on the Kalalua Trail—a spectacular yet grueling hike that tends to advertise itself with photos of blue sky rather than huge rocks and tree roots)

Shell Games [pt 2]

Previously, a post that was ostensibly about NOT buying a vintage abalone bracelet meandered to include photos of my shimmering walls, lamps, and bags.

Having passed up the California Clasper because the detailing was a bit too horsey and the (three) prices were a bit more than I wanted to pay, I now faced a daunting task: using the internet to find a shell bracelet that appealed to eyes, heart and wallet. And fit my wrist.

Which of course was supposed to be the EASIEST task, per Mr Vix’s well-meaning relative.

Having grown from a young child who completely identified with Goldilocks’ quest for perfection to an aging ma’am who completely identifies with Goldilocks’ quest for perfection, I was dubious.

But what the hell, it’s not like I was planning to cure cancer in my spare time. Bring on the eBay listings! Lead me to the online vendors!

I found a lot of bracelets I considered breathtaking, but none that would work for me. I was beginning to think I should have nabbed the raw materials and embraced a Rustic Chic look:

I suppose I would have been arrested had I liberated the abalone shells I saw in Point Lobos (CA) State Reserve

CUE DRAMATIC SIGH

Since much of what I did find was too magical-in-a-nonsupernatural-way for me to simply forget, a little documentation seemed just the ticket.

Gorgeous Abalone Bracelets That Were Too Elaborate For Me

Alas, as with the bracelet I left behind—which had similarly-colored slabs—these stunners are not really one with my Minimalist Magpie side. Forget the price and size considerations: I knew I had to pass them up.

Holy moly, would you look at those hues!

Left: Snap it up. Top right: Still in play. Bottom right: Can be yours.

Gorgeous Abalone Bracelets That Were Too Large For Me (And Yet Not Wide Enough)

Why do you HATE me, Universe??!!

Yes I know this has those ball bearings I don't like, but these are more discreet

Top: $45! for both! Bottom: For those with bigger pocketbooks.

Gorgeous Abalone Bracelets That Were Sinfully Sculptural—But I Wanted Flat

Sinuous and Seductive!

Left: lower end, priceless glow ($80). Right: Higher end ($575) Geraldo Lopez.

Get two clamper cuffs and take no prisoners

Lots of these on eBay, though this one’s now gone.

But a funny thing happened as I was going ga-ga over all this luscious color. A lower-key bracelet-ring set caught the eye of my other style persona, the Contrarian Classist.

Listed as abalone but more likely to be black lip oyster, the set was all sleek curves and subtle smoky shimmer. With a chunky 1.5-inch bracelet width, hurrah! It flashed a few colors here and there, but let steely grey and black run the show:

It reminded me of mood rings and 70s era Halston:

Halston c 1976, from the Chicago History Museum's Chic Chicago exhibit

And it made me forget all about my new WEAR COLOR IN THE WINTER, DAMMIT resolution (and purchases that enabled that resolution). In fact, it sent me straight to my beloved blacks. And greys. Ahhhhhhhhh!

The Contrarian Classicist triumphs over the Minimalist Magpie...or does she?

I can see this will be an eternal wardrobe push-pull, with each side making strong points for her case. Balance is good, of course, and perhaps the recent color and pattern friskiness has been a bit much for my poor Classicist to take. Now of course my inner magpie hasn’t given up on hoping a Lonely Abalone will find its way onto my wrist. But, well… shhhhhhhhh.

PSA: Don’t miss the other Chic Chicago photos the Chicago History Museum has on Flickr!

Shell Games [pt 1]

Sometimes a bracelet is just a bracelet, and sometimes it’s an obsessive-compulsive need you didn’t know you had.

On my recent California road trip, I fell hard for a kicky, perfectly-fitting abalone bracelet that began its life in Mexico circa 1940 or so. Unfortunately, the shimmering shell links will have to spend yet MORE of their days locked up in a souless glass case because I was too stubborn to pay the original asking price (or the “the best I can do” price OR the “final offer” price). And the proprietress too stubborn to accept my my terms, of course. Not a tragedy, but a waste.

As it happens I was both too stubborn to pay any of the three asking prices when we were going south, and too stubborn to pay them when the-I’ll-grant-you-a-bit-long-suffering-in-this-case Mr Vix and I were returning north.

After I left empty-handed and grousing the first time, Mr Vix rather observantly said, “I’ve never even heard you mention the word ‘bracelet’ in the last decade. So I don’t get why you are going on and on about this one.”

Since I’d never SEEN a fabulous vintage shell bracelet before AND most bracelets are annoyingly big on me (the yang to most shoes feeling annoyingly tight in odd places) I thought it was perfectly clear: I couldn’t be kept down on the farm now that I’d seen gay Paree.

I mean I may not have a signature cocktail, but I have a signature fixation. Show me something made of shell or reminiscent of a shell’s pearly interior, and I will start evaluating whether the design itself suits my purposes.

Sometimes I feed the fix with small things. Like vintage mother-of-pearl buttons, a pair of opalescent lamps, or a bowl inlaid with shell.

A few years back, I celebrated the last sanding of my buffet-and-table refinishing project by indulging my love o' shells

Confession: I glued the buttons directly to the glass after I got fed up with trying to be more crafty

Sometimes the shell-based projects get more ambitious. And expensive. But when one’s gutting a small bath in need of big-money structural work, why not mix a dab of brown lip shell in with cheap pale yellow field tile? It guarantees a smile once the walls go up and the checks clear.

Brown lip shell tile zips around the Vix Household's Rectilinear Romance bath

F supervising as we wind up our Rectilinear Romance bath

Sometimes iridescent glass bears enough of a resemblance to shell that it’ll do. With our lack of winter sun, staring at the play of light—my first AND last tiling project to date—keeps me from losing my mind completely. Call it backsplash therapy, baby.

Vix Household's post-reno backsplash...a far cry from the usual vintage-inspired choices, but a wink and a nod to LC Tiffany's iridescent mosaic work

The world's smallest work triangle doesn't meet NKBA standards, but by god I made sure it had lots of shiny stuff in it!

And it’s not like the bracelet would have been my FIRST shell-based accessory.

A shell purse (with horn strap) brings memories of Maui '07, while a wedding guest ensemble gets dainty dangles of inlaid shell

My truly teensy-weensy vintage coin purse will only hold a few folded bills and some loose keys

Then of course there’s my indispendable, $10 shell pendant previously seen with Ole Stripey.

And yet, and YET, when given a second chance to slip-and-skip with that California antique dealer’s vintage delight, I stuck to my ($75) price point and left it behind. Even though my mother’s holiday check would have covered it, and I would have made her so happy by saying “Thanks for the bracelet!!” instead of “Thanks for the er, week of groceries!!”

Now I am seriously just this side of being a sociopath when it comes to being able to rationalize my actions. So obviously it was something besides pride or price keeping me from buying.

Yes, it was a niggling, wiggling sense the the bracelet, whilst beautiful, was what those from more genteel backgrounds than I sometimes refer to as Not Our Kind, Dear. In short, I feared the jewelry violated my Minimalist Magpie ethos.

The design was much like the lovely one below—though the shell was gorgeously multi-colored vs blonde. In the end, however, I’m afraid the silver cake decoration-y elements were just too, too, too…gallumping.

The California clasper had multi-colored abalone instead, but otherwise the design was quite similar to this (SOLD) one; try seller Mercy, Maude! on RubyLane.com if you like it

But with the taste of gorgeous vintage shell bracelets now in my system, what was I to do? Besides test the “You can find that same bracelet much cheaper on eBay” advice of Mr Vix’s well-meaning but undeniably frugal relative, that is.

Next: Part 2 of Shell Games, aka Proving Mr Vix’s relative wrong

Canoodling with cordovan

Since few things bring out my guilt-ridden materialism more than a pair of supple leather boots—blame my collapsed consciousness and my climate—I find myself wanting a clear taxonomic picture of where boots fall in the universe’s shoe hierarchy. Perhaps BECAUSE I’m primarily a non-shoe person, I wonder: if shoes are a Kingdom, are boots filed under Phylum or relegated to a Family? Are they labelled a Genus or corralled in an Order?

I have no idea why I care. I can certainly sleep at night without the answer, as long as I haven’t Googled “boot lovers + photos” before bedtime. Being a boot lover has certain connotations, some of which I’ll (PRIVATELY) cop to enjoying, but so be it. Until I land somewhere puddles are an endangered species, I’m all about heeding the Boot-y Call.

Alas, I don’t think my closet accurately reflects my love; I tally three pairs. Now for a nun that seems like a lot, sure. However, I ask rhetorically, what’s excessive for a person who wears boots October to June? Especially when the only walk-happily-for-hours pair is starting to give me That Look? The look that translates as:

Honey, we’re on Year 4 together and while we appreciate the annual reheeling and spruce up, our high-wear zones are more polish than hide. And a few aftermarket gel pads can’t obscure the fact that we don’t have any more cushion for your pushin’. If you won’t bury us at sea then at least give us a rest, dammit!”

Once boots get vicious like that it’s time to put bare toes to floor and tiptoe away. Without turning one’s back.

Which is why I was seriously peeved when a comfort-feature-laden pair I’d been stalking through thick and starlet-sized prices sold out in my preferred non-color color. [Black, okay? Just in case Jay-Z called after all.] But I could nab a brown version. A weak, mangy brown that looked suspiciously “taupe” vs “dark chocolate” in person. Though I suppose if we’re talking about that dark, ashy chocolate that’s been forgotten in the cupboard too long and thus looks unappetizing even if it tastes fine, the adjective is technically correct.

Hmmmm. I didn’t want dead mouse boots, but I didn’t NOT want dead mouse boots since the price, comfort, heel shape, height, design and fit all worked for me.

That’s when I remembered my Danish Oil. Danish Oil is for wood, yes; I’d used it to turn the finish on a $135 table-plus-buffet set from a cracked blonde to a gleaming walnut without much more than a hint from Heloise. So why was I being such a wimp when it came to wardrobe DIY?

BECAUSE

Why couldn’t I just go over my boots with a darker shade of shoe polish? Say maybe a true chocolate brown. Or even…because it got The Gilded Lily’s vote…cordovan, that passionate purplish hue?

Ready to change the status quo with Meltonian #78, Cordovan

I COULD

And while of course I am a champion procrastinator if something NEEDS to be done, I couldn’t wait to break out the polish:

Getting the late-night cordovan party started (L) as the original boot (R) awaits some love

After two coats of polish, the exterior became a nicely complex shade with much more depth than the original hue:

The exterior's two coats of cordovan polish see daylight, while the original color lurks on the interior

Coincidentally, it also fit in perfectly with The Accidental Capsule’s color scheme. So I took out two of the items for a road test:

"Ooooh, a boot that's neither brown nor black? You shouldn't have!"

I'm suddenly feeling the urge to chew some Gonzo Grape Bubblicious

BOOT TRANSFORMATION = EPIC TRIUMPH

But could cordovan help a pair of shoes I’d bought in a fit of wanting footwear that was sky-high AND comfortable, then made me gag whenever I saw the color? Well, just one coat moved this BabyShitBrown Børn away from its original shade (glimpsed through the peeptoe area)

Cordovan Caper #2: Cordovan takes on a BabyShitBrown shoe (whose peeptoe zone show the original shade)

toward something that looked less atrocious with my year-round, underbelly-of-a-dead-fish leg color:

T (rightfully) thinks he's found a lost sibling

So if you’ve got some leather footwear in your closet that sports a shade that bores or horrifies you, why not get busy with a rag and polish? Stick with a classic, custom-mix your colors—or hey, see what happens when you decide to REALLY kick up your heels.

Go big or go home with Meltonian #185

Criss-Cross

The usual holiday notes and calls, along with my recent California road trip/Holiday 2009 Freeloader’s Tour, emphasized life’s natural flux a bit too much for me.

It’s been rather a mixed-bag whirlwind of people joining my extended network of family and friends and of people leaving it. Of people redefining their role in it (by choice or necessity) and of people oblivious to how they’ve been redefined.

It takes a fair amount of energy to assess the level of intimacy each one seems to desire or deserve. It’s my opinion that some need to be brought closer and some set adrift, but follow-through takes more effort. And brings the risk of a battle.

But onward ho. Because while we’re born alone and die alone, in the middle there are others.

…going into the new year (over?)thinking about the way our relationships continually evolve as we support, protect, overlap, and connect in ways that feel right to us—as well as how our ties fray through benign or deliberate neglect…

(top to bottom: Strolling through Sonoma County redwoods; encountering Topher Delaney’s “Garden Play;” jellies at the Monterey Bay Aquarium; a princess fantasy made public in Balboa Park)

The Accidental Capsule

While I am quite analytical—about topics other than myself, even!—I am a not a particularly organized or forward-thinking person. In fact an impartial observer might very accurately say Vix : Planning :: Earth : Pluto.

But this summer I started thinking that in addition to exercise and Vitamin D supplements and full-spectrum desk lamps and yellow walls and chocolate, I should use my clothing to help combat my seasonal affective disorder.* I figured it wouldn’t take much to move me away from my Fall/Winter fallbacks—aging wool separates and ho-hum knits in black, brown, and grey—toward more chipper horizons. This was before I actually took more than a vague LOOK at my wardrobe’s innards, though, and realized I had a black (naturally) belt in self-deception.

I had to get busy if I wanted to get my closet in shape for the rain and cold.

Unfortunately, despite reading many a clothing-heavy Edith Wharton novel, I wasn’t really sure what “get busy” looked like. Now apparently some home sewers say, “Hmmmm, there’s a new season on the horizon; I think I’ll make sure any/all new items work with each other. Then I won’t have to rely upon item- or outfit-based shopping to perk up random grizzled items!”

But I think they’re the last women on the planet to do so.

[Well, other than my invisipal Heidi. So make that sewers, Heidi, and possibly some ultra-rich women who buy only couture. Though for all I know even wealthy, couture-buying women have a bunch of pieces that don't work with anything else, making them EXACTLY LIKE MERE MORTALS.]

Me, I just knew I had to force myself into technicolor’d textiles while keeping various limitations in mind:

• a certain amount I could justify spending
• a workplace need to dial down my clothing’s formality
• a relatively new understanding that despite bitching about the drawbacks of a small, aging wardrobe I preferred picking and choosing from fewer, spendier workhorses

When I’d run out of money, I found that I’d ended up with a little stand-alone capsule. Fancy that!

Of course I wasn’t totally clueless: when I was ordering individual pieces…all color-colors, YES…I knew every item would work with a ton of stuff I owned. I just didn’t cotton to the fact all (3) tops would work with all (2) bottoms until everything trickled in and I was contrasting and comparing.

I mean maybe my subconscious was helping me out, but frankly I don’t think my subconscious is that smart.

In fact, considering that 4 of the 5 pieces came from local shops and I amassed them on the Item-a-Month plan, I’m thinking there might be a tiny corner of the universe that likes to play paper dolls:

Above: The Sporty Spicing it up crew (who each get their moment in the sun 1 2 3) meet a brownish-plum wool-mohair skirt…and a pair of prune cords that photograph annoyingly dark (below)

Given that post-intervention I’m a fairly classic, non-trend-focused dresser with Garanimals-lovin’ tendencies, I’m also thinking I may attempt to intentionally buy capsules in the future.

Especially as I’m fortunate enough to live in a place full of thrift, consignment, and vintage shops. And to be a sporadic-but-loyal customer of two stores with owner/designers who are happy to talk about their upcoming wares, passionate about showing off their bolts of beautiful fabric, and willing to customize or custom-make designs.

[All at price points in line with standard mall stores like Gap/Banana Republic, Ann Taylor Loft/Ann Taylor, and J Crew. AKA a bit of a stretch for me and many, but we're not talking insanely expensive.]

The only downside of this approach is the non-instant gratification. And yes, the PLANNING. It can all feel a bit chaste and bloodless. But I love the outcome. Plus mix-and-match capsules are kind of like a litter of puppies, or something:

So I’m leaning that way. I mean more vs less strategy certainly can’t hurt MY closet’s life—or my ability to get dressed and out the door for work or play in under 10 minutes. After all, as the much more practical and goal-oriented Ms Fizz said after we got done with her massive wardrobe overhaul:

Unless you are really out there studying stores, fabrics, and fit as well as making relationships with the right shops and vendors, you’ll still find yourself foraging for whatever you can find in a pinch.

The whole PLAN TO FAIL approach leads to much more work and stress, just like in any aspect of life. Yet I never thought that such a concept applied to dressing well. It never occured to me to plan out a wardrobe, ensure I had specific pieces, and make outfits in advance. I guess I never went to ‘girl camp.’”

Make room on that bench, Fizz, because I have a feeling we might have company.

* For more on dressing to combat the winter doldrums, visit AlreadyPretty for Sal’s how-tos about using color, shine, texture, sound and scent to boost your mood. Just don’t stand next to my allergic ass if you ladle on the latter.

Castroville Cotillion Coat

Even the frugal people I know seem to have a relatively vast number of outdoor apparel items, so I’m not sure why I get all Pat Nixon when it comes to coats. [Of course I bet Pat's vocabulary got a bit salty when the topic turned to her husband's political advisors. And I also wager she had a closet full of fur she wore around the house.]

Last I checked the PNW was neither a predominantly warm nor dry place, but for some reason whenever I see a coat my increasingly diluted New England Miser gene takes over my brain to say, “You already have a (black) raincoat and a (plum) toasty faux-lamb number and a (hideous) windcheater and that’s PLENTY, missy.”

New England Miser Gene has been out in force this year, emboldened by grave newscasters shaking their heads over economic drama. Every time I passed one of my favorite local shops and lusted after a particular coat, she was a total nonstop brat.

“BUT IT’S A LIMITED EDITION,” I gasped at NEMG this fall, knowing the coat’s stock would shrink month after month. NEMG wouldn’t let me rationalize it.

“I HAVE SEASONAL AFFECTIVE DISORDER AND WEARING BLACK OUTDOOR GEAR IS A BONA FIDE HEALTH RISK,” I hissed at NEMG as the days got shorter, to no avail.

“THE OWNER IS OUT OF THAT DEMENTED FABRIC I LOVE AND I CAN’T GET A COAT MADE FROM IT LATER–IT’S NOW OR NEVER,” I calmly and logically shared with NEMG. But NEMG countered that the coat was best suited for temperatures between 40 and 65 degrees. And that we were having an ususually frigid winter. So the coat stayed at the shop.

Then, a week before Mr Vix and I were set to leave on our California road trip, a miracle: the last coat in my size was spending the holidays on the 50% off rack due to a (rather severely) ripped lining. If desired, I could nab it ahead of time. And if desired part 2, I could have it chopped several inches and swap out the buttons for another $10.

Despite the fact that I don’t sew, NEMG mused that it might make sense to buy it. After all, I could patch it up with Stitch Witchery and some trucker decals, right?

I wasn’t about to argue.

Especially as the I knew coastal California temperatures would likely be right up my new coat’s alley. And that the background color—a dark blue-toned green that changed with the light—would be so much more festive under San Diego’s blue skies than my serviceable black raincoat.

I mean unless the Grinch has one’s heart, how is this anything but uplifting?

Birds of a feather flocking in sunny San Diego

Though the color deepened to brownish-green under San Francisco’s cloud cover, and the fabric’s mild sheen made it positively glisten when the rain hit:

Glimmering in rainy San Francisco

On a stop between those two fine cities, I felt compelled to sample Castroville’s chief delicacy and had to clutch my napkin. My lands…my coat’s shifting colors were similar to an artichoke’s many possible hues!

Castroville's annual Artichoke Festival turns 51 this year ('10)

Just to be sure I wasn’t unduly influenced by the wiles of a steamed whole ‘choke , I made sure to stop off for an artichoke-avocado taco. To better and more objectively assess my coat and all. While I’m fairly comfortable standing by my initial judgement, I may need to triple-check my impressions by whipping up an Artichoke Caprese Salad now that I’m home.

Artichoke caprese salad from artichoke booster OceanMist.com

Hmmmm…I’m beginning to see the roots of that old knock-knock joke I learned as a kid:

KNOCK-KNOCK

Q: Who’s there?

A: Artie.

Q: Artie who?

A: Artie chokes ’cause he eats too much!”

Come to think of it, I believe my New England grandmother taught me that one.

As dusk falls on the Artichoke Coat, it billows slightly in the breeze--the better to flash its tattered blue lining

Hey 2009: Don’t let the door hit you in the backside

SOMEWHERE NORTH OF SAN FRANCISCO, December 31 — Mr Vix and I have spent most of the last two weeks road-tripping from northwest Oregon to southern California and back again. Though the journey was my idea, this is the type of drive that does no favors to one’s ass, as one must sit on it seemingly forever. By the time we make it home in a few days, we’ll have logged about 50 hours in the car. But what price warmth and clear skies? I mean, getting to see family over the holidays?!

[Though luckily we saw family and one of my funniest friends. Because buffers are always a plus, and buffers who live in exceedingly pleasant jewel-box houses are even MORE of a plus.]

Much to my travel companion’s shock, I did not bring my laptop. Hey, when I unplug, I like to go all BEHOLD MY POWER SURGE. However: we’re at at the last stop on our Holiday 2009 Freeloaders’ Tour. And the family computer sits empty for a moment. And the year ends tonight.

So best wishes to all for a Happy 2010.

Me, I’ll be starting January on a positive note by knowing Mr Vix is sure to sing a different tune about day trips. Plus I’ll be all endorphined up reviewing the photos I nabbed on our vacation. So far 99% of them involve shots of blue sky—JUST blue sky—but if you share my fetish, drop in for the upcoming show and tell. I’ll be posting from underneath my poncho, trying to keep my mail-order optimism dry and sheltered. Somehow, I have a feeling I’m gonna need it to handle 12 more months of who-the-hell-knows.

Minimalist Magpie

This weekend, I had a low-key holiday party on the books. YEA!

Except it was hosted by people I didn’t know, and I am a social caterpillar. BOO!

I figured the odds were good that people would be in jeans and fleece. Especially as it’s been exceptionally frigid here lately. Since I’ve been swaddled in layers and blankets when home, though, I felt that celebrating the moments of my life sans Bunyanwear would make for a nice change. As would showing a little skin. And by “a little skin” I mean possible wrist exposure. To be jolly and all.

So I decided to bust out my one fancypants skirt (a ruched black satin pencil) then dig into my recovering-blackaholic’s closet for black tights, black sweater, and black boots. An easy out, sure, but when nerves get to rustlin’ a somber monochromatic look soothes me, rather like thumbsucking did back in the day. The FAR day.

But.

I had a little playfulness up my black-clad sleeve. A pair of completely over-the-top earrings I had spotted at a favorite vintage shop and moth’d my way toward. Earrings I’d initially discarded as way, way too extreme and non-serious for me. And yet…they appealed, as just about anything iridescent appeals to me. And the colors suited.

Eventually my $22 and I were parted, and the earrings came home with me. Once home they sat in an open-faced box–the better to admire them!–for 4 months. At which point I finagled the screwbacks onto my lobes and took them out for a spin amongst strangers.

Be still my heart

Where they glittered like wee holiday lights against my hair (worn down for warmth) and shawl (worn sporadically as temperatures waxed and waned).

Earrings in motion

The strangers turned out to include super-welcoming, dressed-down women who raved about the earrings. And a VERY friendly dog who liked my skirt so much he spent much of the night quite literally drooling over it. [Which may be why all the women who knew of the dog's existence showed up in jeans: no need to hit the dry cleaners post-festivities.]

While I used to do a damn good job of keeping my inner magpie baked in a pastry, I’m starting to make up for lost time. Pre-intervention, I would have hesitated to have let my Joan Collins Extra-Extra-Lite out for fear of calling too much attention to myself. Which is pretty rich coming from someone as loud and vulgar as I am. Maybe “because I was afraid of seeming frivolous” works better, even if sounds less Beth March and more super-stupid?

At any rate, I’d like to say my earrings owe their new life to my reading of Style Statement: Live By Your Own Design and arriving at a Style Statement, “a two-word compass that helps you make more confident choices in life–from your wardrobe to your relationships, your living room to your career plans.” Unfortunately, I don’t do workbooks, even workbooks the authors present as:

a series of inquiries that lead readers to the personal words that guide the spirit, look and feel of their life. The first word represents your foundation, your 80%. The second word, your 20%, is what motivates and distinguishes you.”

It’s just way too much effort for someone who hates blank pages as much as I do.

But since I have a few invisipals who really liked the book’s exercises, I’d venture it’s worth a look at the actual or Cliff Notes version. After all, using the latter helped me arrive at “Minimalist Magpie,” so clearly one’s Style Statement can work as a great enabling tool. I’m not saying that’s why I tucked “Contrarian Classicist” away in my back pocket, of course. But if it WAS the reason, who can blame a magpie for being a little opportunistic?

Capelet Kismet

Let me be as clear as Eliza Doolittle post-ole ‘enry ‘iggins: I did not go looking for my capelet. It came looking for me.

Having only just ventured away from my Flat Stanley knits and toward a pile of purple fluff, I was still leery of texture. And added bulk.

So when my pal Ms Madeline asked me if I thought she could carry off a vintage coral sweater–a beaded, sleeveless crewneck–I innocently clicked the link she sent concerning said textile. It’s not my fault that a little pale blue capelet was hanging around the vicinity looking adorable, now was it?

I even took the selfless route when I emailed her back to say that she, being possessed of an athletically-inclined bosom, would probably rock the coral. Yup, I noted that the OH GREAT SCOTT JUST LIKE BABY CHICKS, BUT BLUE number was a safer bet for fit and would be just as lovely with her coloring.

So imagine my surprise when I found out she’d bought it not for herself, but as a belated 40th birthday gift for me. Since I failed to show up in France and all, thus thwarting her original gift-giving plans.

Heartbreak aside, I’d have to say a crazy-fabulous $25 Made in Italy knit is a damn good consolation prize for Not Vacationing in France. In fact, I now think EVERYONE needs a capelet just because the word itself is so fantastic. Especially people who did NOT buy vintage coral sweaters because they caught themselves thinking, “Now why the HELL did I ask Vix’s opinion on style?!”

In an homage to one of my favorite 50s pairings and my closet’s neutral-heavy innards, I put my captivating capelet with head-to-toe espresso and swanned off to work. [Though the shade does look black in my crap photos.]

I mean of course it’s not the piece to wear if you’re trying to be all “Hi, I’m a corporate shark and I smell your blood in my water” but if you want to keep your fins warm on the weekend? Problem solved. Then again, Frank Perdue DID say, “It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken” so perhaps one could extrapolate.

Whatever you do, don’t run off and have a clandestine, capelet’d affair unless you’ve checked on fabric content: mohair sheds.

ADDENDUM

Confused about what constitutes a capelet? Here’s my extremely biased opinion.

Capelets, Of Course

Classic Americana. No sleeves. Coverage stops around the elbows.

Happiness reigns.

[If we ignore that pesky, institutionalized sexism and racism, anyway!]

Setting a Good Example: Vintage and Modern Capelets

A vibrant flat knit capelet plus a gorgeous, gossamer grey variation.

Again: No sleeves. Coverage stops around the elbows (if elbows are present).

A Spendy Capelet And Some Dubious “Capelet” Friends

Left: a savings-sucking $1900 capelet (minaPoe for CoutureLab).

Center, Kiki de Montparnasse. Right, 2005 Alexander McQueen.

Not really capelets. But not really non-capelets. OMG: CAPELET FUSION

Things Marketed as Capelets That Just Ain’t

Capelets do not have sleeves. Period amen.

Vicarious Vacationry

Admittedly, it was totally insane and uncharacteristically extravagant of me to say “hell yes!” when my friends proposed going to the South of France just 6 months after my mid-life crisis/40th birthday vacation. Seeing as how that trip took 99% of my non-allocated-for-bills money and all. But THIS European trip was to celebrate one friend’s milestone birthday and another’s graduation; given my whole post-40 carpe diem thing, I figured I could just about justify going.

As long as I didn’t spend a dime on the house or my caboose before the trip. Or food.

But of course my oui oui oui all the way far from home answer was before my ancient computer slipped into a coma and one of my income sources dried up. And also before I realized that plane fares from the West Coast would refuse to get with the “we’re in an economic crisis, enjoy our fire-sale prices” program and actually RISE vs drop. So eventually I had to face reality, cast one last glance at photos of the darling little Avignon apartment I’d planned to plop in for a week, and tell my pals that I would not be the trois in their menage.

They took it very well, and I took it not well at all. But then I’m someone who nowadays sees NO POINT in working if I can’t spend on things that bring me joy. It’s not very evolved of me, I know.

Luckily, they agreed to share their trip with me in semi-real-time ways by writing online epistles from the aforementioned little Avignon apartment. Unluckily, I was only thinking of my pal Madeline’s passion for photography and history, NOT her passion for gastronomical delights. Which means that in addition to learning quite a lot about the various towns she and my other friend toured, I also had near-daily photos of pastries accompanied by prose such as:

For dessert I had a chilled ganache that was sprinkled with pecans and rolled in a tortilla, sliced into medallions and served with creme anglaise and whipped cream.  L. had some profiteroles.

….

“L’s dessert was definitely the more visually compelling.  She had three scoops of house-made ice cream: gingerbread, Calisson and banana flambee, which were accented with a little kumquat and a slice of star fruit.  It was lovely.  Mine looked a little like breakfast cereal, but it was wonderful:  chocolate raviolis in a white chocolate sauce with flambeed banana ice cream served on the side.”

Friends for almost 30 years, and I never knew she was such a sadist.

It was tough, but I kept reading. All about how they needed me–the 3rd lightweight–to help them finish bottles of excellent wine. About how my tie-breaking skills were missed when arguments about gelato flavors (in France?!) flared. About the thrice-daily tears they shed over my absence. [Okay, one of those was more of a reading-between-the-lines thing.]

Yes, it was tough, but I loved hearing how excited they were about all they were absorbing and ingesting. And I really did learn a lot about desserts and architecture. So thanks, Ms M!

…Ms Madeline has offered up some coloriffic South of France photos so that those of us with open hearts and closed wallets can enjoy some vicarious pleasures…

...grabbed with a camera phone after the 2 adventurers had a particularly decadent, enjoy-our-truth-in-advertising dinner...

Sporty Spicing it up [pt 3]

Earlier, I described my reluctant resolution to step away from my closet’s natural Fall/Winter habitat–aging wool separates and ho-hum knits in black, brown, and grey–and toward more chipper horizons. With two new items of color creating sweet intertonal music with my well-worn neutrals, I’d made real strides. I had incandescent stripes, I had can’t-miss-me pattern. But with dresses made of funeral bunting a key ‘09 trend, I also had temptation. Relapse was in the wind.

Every so often, I realize a certain genre in my progeria-inclined wardrobe needs to be taken VERY firmly in hand. Last summer, it was sandals; this fall, items of the vaguely-defined “nice casual” or “casual chic” variety.

With an Ultra-Relaxed Fit work environment on my horizon, I had serious closet concerns.

While I could fake looking mellow in summer with a few 2-for-1 Ts, my always-limited cold-weather casual options were now faded, stretched out of shape, and/or scarred from various messy labors. After having paid virtually no attention to what I wore on the weekends–or just gotten more cost per wearing out of staid work duds–how could I be faced with such a crisis?!

Clearly the time had come for me to go all Hans Brinker on the problem, even if it meant enlisting a few extra digits.

With the need vast and the Update Fund less than robust, VaderWear updates would have to wait. For mental health and variety, it seemed best to parse out the pennies on “real” color. So much for my chance to spray paint my 11-year old car and roll with Jay-Z’s crew:

Get y’all fatigues on / All black everything / Black cards, black cars

All black everything”

FINE GO WITHOUT ME

But here was Suzy Menkes, reassuring–and terrifying–me about being swaddled in color:

Woolly, hairy or feather light, autumn knits have one thing in common: They cover the body like falling leaves. Softly, softly is the story, whether a sweater is filmy and vaporous or a cardigan dense with cable stitching….

“Colors are other-worldly, off-tones that might give to a winter woolly an eerie glow. Sour-apple green, an angry-wound pink or russet too bright to be rustic are just some of the unexpected colors on this new palette.”

In theory, that sounded captivating. And I’m sure sky-high whippets benefit from vats of Fisherman’s Ribs tossed over THEIR sternums. But the rest of us have to be all yellow alert. Or else.

From whatthehelldidyoumake.wordpress.com

Unfortunately for goal-oriented shoppers such as my-new-and-possibly-improved-self, a significant chunk of creative directors at Big Mid-Priced Retail Establishments apparently prepped for plummeting temperatures by getting drunk on highballs and watching Mad Men featurettes. Most anything warm and in color had a neckline up to my ears. And often a TIE.

Though to be excruciatingly fair, another (goddamn lazy) subset got busy churning out those heterosexual-privileging, rarely-flattering “boyfriend cardigans” from the 80s. But with inferior fabrics.

And of course Anthropologie did their thing–bless their hearts–but I’m afraid that involved offerings with 60% more bulk and/or associated geegaws than I could handle.

Basically, nothing I tried seemed like something in which I should leave the house. Until I saw this, anyway:

Having already thrown down for the recovering wall treatment known as Ole Stripey and the exuberantly patterned, descendant-of-Multiples cardiwrap, I had an epic question before me: was a pile of purple fluff worthy of being Fall/Winter Update #3?

And if “yes,” would I be channeling one of my idols?

Not that that’s a bad thing.

In fact, while it’s fun to play with contrasting and tonal underlayers (what, I’m gonna throw a black bra under it and call it good?)

and the color does make me look as if I sleep 10 or so hours a night, I’m ever-so-mildly sad it’s not green. Next time, Oscar, next time.

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 4]

Before she could arrive on the other side of her major wardrobe overhaul, Ms Fizz had to confront her self-titled PLAN TO FAIL shopping strategy, address her frustration with fit/find/flatter challenges, and do battle with her foaminess-flattening forces.

Thanks to the sometimes-conflicting body shape experts mentioned earlier in this sprawling tale, Ms Fizz and I set off on our multiple shopping excursions with a pretty good idea of what shapes would best flatter her busty, height-challenged, H/Rectangle shape.

Unfortunately for us, however, Fizz has never had any professional color-typing done. Given her blue eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion, I suggested she turn her wardrobe into the love child of Tom Wolfe and the Blue Man Group, but nooooooo…she wanted to venture farther afield.

Actually she wanted to venture WAY afield into the ubiquitous bright reds and purples that have marked many a ”Pantone Fall.” No question, the shades in question would have been fine for accessories or below-the-waist items, and who doesn’t love a cheerful red during a long grey winter?

Since we’d agreed to the “Glow or No?” method of assessing face-friendly colors, however, I dared her to look me in the eye and and tell me jellybean red and popsicle purple made her look like a dewy-eyed faun. Luckily the coral sweater she’d picked out (on her own, GO FIZZ) called her bluff.

In the end, we arrived at a non-scary core palette that mixed her existing browns and blacks with deep blues and cool greys. When worn together, the core shades create a fairly toned-down look. To counterpoint the core’s more somber colors, though, she also chose some make-your-presence-known items in zippy shades.

And should she be overtaken by the urge for extra-frisky ensembles? What then?!! No worries, man–she just has to facilitate a little accent-to-accent afternoon (or evening) delight.

Fizz’s Fall/Winter 09 Color Palette

Top: Core colors – Bottom: Accent colors

All Fizz’s delightful new duds cried out to be immortalized. So, using my legendary powers of persuasion and probably the smallest dab of eau de Guilt Trip, I convinced her to let me document some of the key pieces and colors snuggling up to her now-sparkling self.

Given the Dickensian lead-up, it feels a bit anti-climactic to post the results of her time, effort, and money: relatively simple styles that, with one or two exceptions, aren’t particularly connected to must-have trends.

But then that’s the point. Because unlike the almost-70 Lily, Fizz doesn’t feel the need to be plugged in to every trend on the street (let alone to wear them all at once). She didn’t close herself off to options when we were out looking, but she stayed focused on her goals.

Fizz’s Wardrobe-Update Requirements

• Skew “PNW urban casual,” feminine, fun, versatile, flattering
• Include some double-duty dress up/dress down pieces
• Keep skirts right below knee to downplay knee/calf transition zone
• Shape torso area: draw attention from stomach area; create/emphasize waist; define bust
• Elongate neck and legs

...neither Von Unwerth nor Meisel were available to shoot Ms Fizz, so she had me showing up at her door (repeatedly)…

Vix, I worry I won’t be able to sleep without seeing a breakdown of Ms Fizz’s closet. Tell me all, or at least what you remember!”

CORE: DEEP BLUES

Midnight Blue heavyweight jersey dress :: Bright Navy velvet blazer :: Medium denim wrap skirt with peacock ribbon trim :: Navy V-necked, long-sleeved T :: Lapis V-necked, long-sleeved, vertically-ruffled, ruched T :: Twilight cotton camisole :: Navy/ivory cotton blouse :: Ink thinwale trouser-cut cords [not pictured] :: Bright Navy fabulous new everyday bra [neither worn nor pictured]

[existing items] Dark denim pencil with red contrast stitching :: Bright Navy cotton cardigan  :: Medium- and dark-wash bootcut jeans

CORE: DARK BROWNS

Espresso cord blazer :: Dark brown deep V, double-weight jersey top :: Brown/black patterned knit skirt :: Medium brown, knee-high stacked-heel boots

[existing items] Medium brown layering shell :: Dark brown cotton sateen faux-wrap blouse :: Dark brown cotton cardigan

CORE: BLACK

Black knee-high, stacked-heel pull-on boots

[existing items] Black deep V faux-wrap top :: Black flat-heeled knee-high boots :: Black cotton cardigan :: Black wool-blend trumpet skirt :: Black deep V cotton sweater :: Black satin A-line skirt :: Black velvet blazer

CORE: GREYS

Slate silk blouse with horizontal ruffle detailing :: Medium grey, V-necked long-sleeved T :: Medium grey surplice/ruched jersey sweater [not pictured] :: Grey/Navy diagonal stripe T [not pictured]

[existing] Medium grey camisole :: Grey/navy/brown/ochre sleeveless ruched top :: Grey wool-blend pants

ACCENTS: ALL

Coral tissue merino deep-V, twist-front/ruched cardigan :: Bright olive A-line thinwale cord skirt :: Foxglove pink cotton cardigan :: Medium teal V-necked, long-sleeved, vertically-ruffled, ruched T :: Teal cotton camisole :: Periwinkle merino cardigan with jewel buttons [not pictured] :: Purple/pink patterned, scoop neck knit top [not pictured]

[existing] Pink/Grey confetti long-sleeve T :: Assorted colorful camisoles

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 3]

Earlier, I described how Ms Fizz and I purged her closet; I then shared the technical and logistical challenges she felt impaired her efforts to be more stylish. Now it was time to dig a little deeper.

Like many people or perhaps just me, my friend Ms Fizz looked at her clothing in aggregate one day and realized her method of event- or desperate-need-based shopping had given her a pretty useless closet. The majority of her so-called wardrobe either didn’t fit, didn’t flatter, or didn’t reflect who she was or how she lived.

So she decided to change. She wasn’t looking to be a head-turning fashion plate or an object of desire; she just wanted to look like she thought about style a bit. And color. Because it’s never a bad thing to go a little Pleasantville on one’s closet, as long as one avoids tossing in random shades of non-black willy and nilly.

Bring on the color!

As we immersed ourselves further into Operation Overhaul, I could tell that Fizz had thought through ALL the factors that contributed to her style stagnation. Despite being one of those tantalizingly private types, she selflessly agreed to go public with her shopping skeletons.

Q: Aside from fit and logistical issues, were there any other barriers that brought your closet to this really sad place that does not at all reflect your fabulously-extroverted, very generous, mega-sparkly personality?”

A: “Being driven by the cheapness factor didn’t help; despite being lucky enough to have some savings to spend on clothes, my default is “Why buy 1 expensive top when I can get 3 cheaper things?” I don’t necessarily buy 3 cheaper things, of course–or if I do I don’t buy the things that would really help update my closet.”

Interior demons discussed? Check. Now for the external influences. I knew Fizz had worked in some pantyhose-n-heels places in the past as well as a setting she describes as “no shirt, no shoes, no problem.” [No, not a strip club: a start-up.]

The latter was hardly a place of style inspiration, but what about her most recent job? Oh right: she was part of an organization with a dress code I’d have to label as “Aggressively Casual.” Less Hiking to the Latte Bar mellow, more I Could Kick Your Ass Without Messing Up My Look. With some Just Rolled Out of Bed, You Wanna Make Something Of It? subsets.

Q: If you were a tree in your workplace, what kind of tree would you be? Talk to me about cultural expectations.”

A: “There are places that don’t really care about the larger social signals clothing can send, and I know some people like that.

“But for me, the downside of working in those types of environments is that they don’t support or encourage doing more than basic self-care. People either don’t use clothing for personal expression or they dial their efforts way back so they fit into the overall culture.

“I’m realizing that I have a tendency to subconsciously absorb what others are doing, then incorporate it into my style or behavior. Between my co-workers and living in a very casual city, my wardrobe went into a death spiral without my really noticing it.

“I mean I didn’t give up entirely, I was trying…but I guess whatever I bought didn’t make enough of a difference.”

As I’d met Fizz for a Reunion Recap and seen her positively strutting down the street in her simple post-alteration cotton separates, I knew SHE knew how it felt to be a bit…intentional…about her visual presentation. And being both frugal and luckier than many these days, she had a nice little nest egg to spend on herself and on the economy.

In my completely unqualified eye she was ready, willing, and able to handle the massive amounts of shopping and relentless partial nudity that accompany a major wardrobe overhaul.

I, on the other hand, was in danger. Having spent most (okay, all) of my Fall/Winter update money, I’d have to violate my Mae Westian nature and actually RESIST temptation as I tromped around helping Ms Fizz find gorgeous things for her gorgeous self. Who knew that spending other people’s money could be so tough?

Next: Part 4 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka Pictorial Payoff

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 2]

In an earlier post, I discussed how Ms Fizz asked me to provide moral support and brutal honesty as she examined the innards of her wayward closet.

Unfortunately for Ms Fizz, I love nothing more than bossing people around—sure beats working!—but have no one in my life to boss. By the time she’d finished trying on EVERYTHING I SAID EVERYTHING she had to wear, we realized that her choices were “move to nudist colony,” “continue to dress like Lady Chatterley’s lover,” or “shop for cool-weather clothes.”

Seriously, even a tiny-wardrobed European (that mythical creature) would be hard-pressed to live with what made the cut. I mean yes, some woman can rock a black satin skirt on a near-daily basis; once it lost a few inches off the hem it was definitely a keeper, no doubt. But it and the few other stragglers weren’t doing much for Ms Fizz’s closet gestalt.

Just to clarify, this purge was not a “OMG those jeans are so last season you can’t possibly be seen in them!!!!!” type of undertaking. This was a salvage operation, and we knew we might come up with little worth saving; after all, only 4 or so years had passed since I’d surveyed my own closet and found a raft of poorly-constructed items, a predominance of unflattering shapes, a sea of black, and, to prove my open-mindedness, some token “cheerful” tops in colors and/or patterns that didn’t suit.

I had already walked a mile in her tatty moccasins, and knew changing the status quo was a real resource-suck. With that in mind, I figured a little positive reinforcement couldn’t hurt.

Q: Remember when I had my wardrobe intervention? Your closet is in much better shape than mine was then. For one thing, you don’t have hand-me-downs that look crappy on you…and instead of JUST black, you have a fair amount of one of your best neutrals, brown.

More importantly, you’ve got at least a handful of flattering, highly-flexible items. How did THAT happen?”

A: “Anything that’s in the ‘keep’ pile was bought last year after watching Tim Gunn and deciding to make a conscious effort to buy for shape, quality, AND flattering color. Which is why there’s not much staying!”

So: a near-empty closet and piles of donation- or dumpster-bound clothes all around. Freeing? Overwhelming? Some of each, please? I decided I’d better offer that shoulder.

Q: Let’s cut you some slack. You’re a petite, your sister’s a petite, your mom is a plus-petite–fit is an extra challenge for all of you, right?”

A: “My mom has it worse as a plus-petite, but yes–if I want to look remotely this century, there are only a couple of lines I can buy from. Assuming you can even find a Petites Department, it’s rare for one to inspire you to up your game–even if you’re 90, they’ll send you screaming back to jeans, sweatshirts, and T shirts.

“Which, coincidentally, is what I wore all through high school and college.

“But then so did everyone else my age, because my town only had one place to buy clothes!”

I will say that I know a fair number of invisipals who manage to look damn good despite having only have one place to shop. Of course they are often cheating on their town with eBay or online retailers, which may explain it. And often they are just a hell of a lot more creative and patient, which I SUPPOSE could also explain it.

Assuming one leaves budget out of it for a minute, though, Ms Fizz and I have a plethora of local shopping options–high-end consignment, resale shops, major chains, vintage-only temples, boutiques. So why is dressing like Ms Average Pulled-Together Adult Woman (give or take a few stylistic flourishes) so difficult for us?

Q: Are we just really bad at this? Compared to other people, we have so many places to shop around here–I can’t believe I have to order basics online and/or get stuff altered. Sometimes I think fondly of the days when I didn’t spend any time, effort, or money on clothes and just aspired to look like I didn’t get dressed in the dark. The dark of someone else’s closet.”

A: “Well, sure, technically I have choices. But I’ve complained about the Petites issue, and I admit I don’t like shopping online. And you know what? Some of the local boutiques seem to specialize in unreasonable fabrics and unforgiving fits.

“Plus while makeover shows have helped a lot, I still don’t know all that much about dressing my body, especially since it’s NOT the body I had 20 years ago. Or 5 years ago, since how something looks can change even if you stay same weight or size. I’ve done too tight AND too loose, so apparently I’m still learning how to do the downplay/highlight thing.”

All that context was useful before we started shopping, but there was something I had to know. I mean granted I was FREQUENTLY wearing paint-stained yoga pants to the grocery store several years ago, but back then it seemed to me like Fizz dressed pretty well: womanly, casual-but-chic, fun.

She hadn’t gone through the whole pregnancy/post-partum thing that can throw a lot of women for a loop, so what the hell had happened to her?

Next: Part 3 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka getting our Oprah on

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 1]

Having been part of Ms Fizz’s process during her relatively last-minute, fairly desperate hunt for items she could wear to her 20th high school reunion, I was understandably stoked that she was buoyed by the results. And also thrilled that she and all her former classmates made it through the swamp soirée portion of the weekend without dying from heat exhaustion. So when she called a few weeks ago and gasped, “CLOSET PURGE HELL…4 years overdue…come?” I arrived full of stamina and ruthlessness.

After all, hadn’t I just been through my own closet audit, an audit that saw many a delusion dashed despite my transformation into a fairly brutal, thrice-yearly weeder-outer?

Clearly, she needed a friend who could offer both a shoulder on which to cry and a familiarity with Tim Gunn, Trinny & Susannah, Stacy & Clinton, and Lloyd Boston. Of course I’m actually a friend with the above qualifications as well as a slight obsession with one of the most inclusive of the body-type advisors, Mr Bradley “The Science of Sexy” Bayou.

Though sadly I lack access to the aforementioned cable TV makeover shows, I’ve gleaned enough from the internet to know we needed to work as a team. I would ask incisive answers, she would supply heartfelt answers. So I jumped in:

Q: How would you describe your current shopping strategy and your wardrobe management system?”

A: “PLAN TO FAIL.”

Okay, scratch the heartfelt.

When I arrived, she’d thankfully sorted out her definite donate-or-dump items. Hours later, with the “maybes” assessed and recategorized, one thing was clear: we were seeing the price one paid for living an E Fashion Emergency lifestyle, and that price was imminent bare-assedness.

We both knew that unless she started shopping–preferably in a purposeful manner–she’d need to nab her curtains and some duct tape and channel a certain literary heroine. Or any number of reality TV contestants.

I exaggerate the situation. Slightly.

Next: Part 2 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka closet autopsying R us

Relatable

Like many others families, the Vix Household has had QUITE a year. And by “quite” I mean way, way too many big tricks overshadowing delicious treats. In the spirit of the holiday and the proverbial picture/1000 word we’re talking:

But then as Mark Knopfler wrote and Mary Chapin Carpenter so cheerily sings:

When you’re rippin’ and you’re ridin’
And you’re coming on strong
You start slippin’ and slidin’
And it all goes wrong because

Sometimes you’re the windshield
Sometimes you’re the bug”

Damn GPS.

…oh I’m lazy enough to lust for a cruise-control life, but I guess there’s something to be said for constant course correction…

(Astoria Halloween streetscape)

Segmentation

The typical, torrential rains we’ve had the last month have helped convince my semi-reluctant daytripper love that hello, I WAS RIGHT about making hay–ok, lollygagging–while the sun shines.

As two of my favorite PNW spots are Astoria and Hood River, away we went on separate weekends. I’m not the Oregon Tourist Bureau so I won’t extoll each area’s many virtues, but I will say Astoria’s nicknamed “Little San Francisco” for a reason and Hood River makes windsurfers from around the world cry with joy.

[Though more importantly from my perspective, Hood River is one of the country's best wine- and fruit-producing regions. Obligatory add-on: Beer, too.]

Both towns are hanging in there in spite of recession woes, and it was great to see new hospitals and playgrounds and community organizations in the mix. But along with infrastructural goodness, I saw people milling around farmer’s markets and ordering a morsel or two in cafés and doing the best they could to keep local businesses alive without going under themselves.

And I admit, the progress and activity made me a little misty-eyed. For a thousand tiny reasons that build upon each other until they create a reason that’s so simple, strong, and pure that it becomes an antidote to all the bad news, all the sad news, all the news that’s not fit to print but is out there anyway.

…I’d love more Big Joy in life right now, but I think the eyedropper method of finding and bringing happiness is worth exploring…

(top to bottom: Hood River clock’s geometric delights; HR’s Full Sail Brewery brings industrial chic to the historic town; HR climbers get a helping hand; an open-weave sweater meets a few of HR’s showy leavesHR’s newish outdoor playzone has postcard views; clouds capture Astoria Column; Astoria’s Columbia River sentries)

Sporty Spicing it up [pt 2]

In an earlier post, I discussed how wearing prison stripes during my formative years left me with a stripe fetish and how I happily boosted my current wardrobe of aging neutrals by swathing my torso in a striped wall treatment. A wall treatment/sweater that I’m calling “patterned” even though that descriptor is not shared by all.

Between the lack of color and the lack of pattern in my increasingly decrepit fall/winter wardrobe, I knew my clothing and I were headed down a non-exotically-colored dirt road to Dullsville. And that my path would not be altered by choosing textured neutrals, no matter how much a black velvet blazer might TRY to convince me it held the answer to my plain-Jane fabric problems.

But with no room for budgetary mistakes, how to choose the soft goods equivalent of the Yellow Brick Road? How to pick a statement-y sweater and not end up with That Print, the purchase that sits in one’s drawer or closet and makes one wince whenever it peeks out?

Slowly or boldly, or slowly then boldly. But preferably armed with a bit of knowledge from Bridgette Raes or Imogen Lamport’s blog.

Education on visual matters, aside, though, I think love plays a strong role in pattern-choosing. I maintain that one must fall for a print (or stripe, okay?) from across the proverbial crowded room. In the tiny section of my heart that beats to a romantically-inclined drum, I believe one must long to take a pattern home and immediately introduce it to members of one’s preferred wardrobe items, be they pants or skirts or jackets or dresses. [Or, if one's a clothing polywollydoodler, all of the above.]

But that’s just my .02. I eased into things with ole Stripey, because Stripey was my type.

YES I HAVE A TYPE

Others gravitate towards certain colors or scales in prints, and while I judge that to be a MARVELOUS starting place, I’m usually impervious to such sensory cues. Now I tend to be all Artemis the Unconquerable around patterns in general, true, but ever since the fabric that ended up as my 40th birthday dress (aka The Dress of 1000 Nipples) something’s happened.

I, the woman for whom “Back in Black” is an anthem not an observation…I…I am now a sucker for prints in rosy pinks. I even contemplated a one-night dalliance with some unapologetically vivid pink poppies (and ok maybe the roses, too).

So I suppose that more or less explains how I catapulted into desire for this VERY exuberant pattern when I encountered it as a wrap dress:

Unfortunately, standard wrap dresses create a block-with-a-belt look on me. And anyway I needed a sweater-y thing more than a dress. Sure, the shop had a few yards of leftover fabric, and I could see if the customizing queens could make me something to serve as my Fall/Winter Wardrobe Update #2.

But would I be exchanging cash for plaintive questions on the drive home?

To test my adoration, I took some time to ponder how a creature made from the above might fit into my closet. I looked at my sea of browns and my dark denim, and I tried to visualize myself wearing something that said HEY I’M OVER HERE! IN THE ROSY PINK! YA CAN’T MISS ME!

Such thoughts were a bit nerve-wracking, but then again I had managed to wear the aforementioned Dress of 1000 Nipples quite a few times without dying from pattern/color overdose. Hmmmmmm.

And then again redux I had been thinking that a variation or knockoff of the DKNY Cosy Sweater could be nice. Especially as I never got to buy any spendy Multiples (Units) as a middle-schooler, which has apparently left me with loads of curiosity about wearing tube tops as skirts and so on.

So I took the plunge, then had to figure out what to do with the damn thing:

No, I can’t do as many tricks with my Missoni PseudoCozy* as the DKNY Cozy converts can do with theirs. Partially because mine’s pretty loosely based on the original recipe cozy, and partially because I’m just not that limber. But I can (quickly) style it enough ways to soothe my inner, Multiples-deprived child.

And really, sometimes that’s all a closet needs: something with enough cheesiness to earn a smile, enough practicality to suit, and enough oomph to make a difference.

* Unlike Stripey’s origins as a pillow drape, I think my demi-sheer Missoni beauty was officially turned into spendy caftans and bikinis.

Next: Part 3 of Sporty Spicing it up, aka get a restraining order against the cats

Hat[box] trick

Luckily for my budget I lack the shoe fetish gene. And aside from jewelry I am not a big accessories person. So it’s a bit odd that I have such a perplexing amount of affection for the couple of little run-around-town purses I have. I spent most of last spring and summer glued to my violently orange bag:

Hey, carrying this has made it super-easy for people to spot me!

But now that Halloween is near, I feel compelled to swap my Love Canal Pumpkin purse for this wacky wallet-carrier:

I like my purses the way I like my men: old and ropey. I kid, I kid...I judge all on a case-by-case basis.

How much do I wish I could blow MY lid like this?

Speaking from a purely objective, form-based perspective, the hatbox influence makes my bag cuter than any bug in a rug ever thought of being. True, the lid edge has a small crack and a few dings; overall, however, it’s in much better shape than I am.

In fact, when I was getting my most recent pair of emergency glasses–the ones I rarely wear because I only love OTHER people in glasses–the fit expert admired my bag and told me she used to deal with high-end purses. Then she told me that I should take very, very good care of my little $35 vintage find.

THANKS LADY, NO PRESSURE THERE!

In terms of function, though, my corded charmer’s major downside is that it requires me to travel light. Which, given my chronic neck and shoulder issues, is also its major upside. Because no lie, this bag is Miss Jean Brodie strict and it won’t abide a hoarder. If you try to stuff, you’ll get guff.